


Fond Memories

by devilsnowcandy



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Imprisonment, Masturbation, Other, PWP, Post Avengers (Movie), Rape Fantasy, Shapeshifting, Short, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:17:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsnowcandy/pseuds/devilsnowcandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now that he has the time to contemplate it, he decides that her fear had not been entirely feigned."  </p><p>After the Avengers movie, Loki considers his conversation with Natasha and decides to make use of the only magical ability left to him - shapeshifting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fond Memories

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a response to a kinkmeme request that asked for Loki shapeshifting into a friend or enemy when masturbating. The Heimdall/Loki is only sort of hinted at.
> 
> There is no actual rape scene in this fic, but the nature of the fantasy is such that I'd say it could be triggery.

Now that he has the time to contemplate it, he decides that her fear had not been entirely feigned. Natasha Romanov may be a cunning warrior, as well-versed in lying and manipulation as she is in weaponry, but she is also a human. The horror he saw in her eyes through the glass wall of that ridiculous cage was in some part real. The very fact that she’d felt it necessary to let him know she’d played him was proof enough of that.

So he returns to the memory of that moment, again and again. Trying to remember the tilt of her head, the change of light in her eyes, the hue of her hair, the way her slender body tensed as he reminded her of all the filth in her past.

In his cell beneath Asgard Loki’s magic is bound so that he can influence no one and nothing around him. There are no illusions he can cast, no ensorcelled words he can speak into guardsmen’s ears. No guardsmen near him either, for that matter – they grew tired of listening to his bile, and so now he is watched only by Heimdall’s steady gaze.

This spell has nothing to do with influencing those around him. It is the oldest, most purest form of his magic, this shape-shifting, and Odin has set no wards against it. Did he think it harmless?

As his eyes shut, Loki thinks – of her hair, a dull copper like old blood – of her eyes, pale and cool – of the shape of her lips, the set of her shoulders. Some of this he must draw from imagination – tight as her suit was, still he could not know the shape of her breasts beneath it or the size and shape of her nipples and nether regions.

When he is done he slides down the wall with a sigh and leans against it, eyes closed, legs spread obscenely wide. Heimdall’s gaze now lands upon the naked form of the Midgardian woman Natasha Romanov.

Loki raises his hands to cup his breasts, exploring the shape of them. It has been many years since last he wore the form of a woman. He touches himself everywhere, running his hands down the smooth arms, the flat stomach, the curved, toned muscles of his legs.

He reminds himself again of the horror on the Black Widow’s face, that split second of real, human terror. He does not bother trying to mimic it – not for Heimdall’s benefit, the gatekeeper could never appreciate how delicious it is to see one’s own power reflected back in that way. No, for his audience he opens his mouth in a gasp, the whole of Natasha Romanov’s face twisted into an expression of desire. He rubs his raised nipples with his thumbs, gentle, and moans lowly.

By the time he finally dips his hand between his legs he is already slick, and he gasps at the sensation. He takes his time, writhing slowly on the floor, building the pressure inside himself. He wishes he could see himself – see Natasha’s haughty façade fallen away, cheeks flushing red, eyes shining, blood-coloured hair tangled and sticking to sweaty skin. He knows that Heimdall sees.

He breathes out in Natasha’s husky voice as he penetrates himself with his fingers. “Oh, oh, please, oh.”

He imagines that he really is her for a moment, that the Hawk has been given his orders and is doing this to her, that she is dying slowly from a poisoned knife and being violated by a man who once was her friend. That she is paralyzed, helpless, unable to do anything but gaze up with those frightened eyes and beg. “Oh, please, don’t, it hurts, don’t do this.”

He is moving faster now, the friction of his fingers wonderfully painful, gasping with low, voiced moans, and he abandons that fantasy for another, just as enthralling. He is Natasha Romanov, enslaved to Loki’s will by the sceptre. Locked into a glass cell, spread and naked, wanton with lust, fucking herself on her fingers to please him. Loki looks in upon her – upon himself as Natasha – and smiles, and the pleasure at pleasing him is – and he’s coming, muscles contracting around his fingers as he shouts with wordless pleasure in Natasha’s voice.

By the time the guards come to give him his evening meal, he is in his own form again, clothed, composed, a sullen prisoner once more.


End file.
